"The part was crooked," she explained. Upon reading the name, the doctor's eyebrows went up. She was sore with the perplexities of her preposterous position. A few steps brought him to the door of the vault in which his mother was immured. In spite of God and wasps and her father, she had stolen plums; and once because of discovered misdeeds, and once because she had realized that her mother was dead, she had lain on her face in the unmown grass, beneath the elmtrees that came beyond the vegetables, and poured out her soul in weeping. In her case the barrier was not selfishness but the perception that her interest would be misinterpreted, naturally.
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